


i save these words for you

by writevale



Series: and here you are making gold out of it [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Cottage boyfriends, Discussions of Asexuality, Do Jon and Martin stop being sarcastic with each other ever?, Fingering, Hand Jobs, Love Bites, M/M, Martin's opinion of BBC radio 4 is valid and correct, Relationship Negotiation, Sex-positive ace, Trans Male Character, discussions of past relationships, no, no beta we die like men, post 159, pre 160, they do not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: 'I've been thinking, it feels like this is the part where we should have sex.'
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: and here you are making gold out of it [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657546
Comments: 43
Kudos: 459





	i save these words for you

**Author's Note:**

> _life is heavy  
>  and you're no master, son  
> when you're ready  
> into my arms come_  
> \- saved these words, laura marling

Jon's stubble is rough against the soft skin of Martin's fingers as he rakes them from the pewter silk of Jon's hair, down the sharp angle of his jawline, coming to cup his face gently. He times the soft gesture with a little suggestion of teeth in their otherwise languid kiss. Jon's surprised gasp is the hiss of steam from hot rocks, something volcanic and lacking as much control. Martin fancies he feels Jon's cheeks heat up under his hands.

'Sorry.' Jon mumbles as he pulls back. The glow from their lamp - the one they move from the bedroom to the living room as they relocate - casts his bitten lip in gold. Martin doesn't drop his hands and rubs a comforting line across his prominent cheekbones. Jon meets his eyes and he quirks an eyebrow in askance. 'Felt good.'

'You don't need to apologise for something feeling nice.' Martin strokes his face again. Jon's eyes look ever so slightly smaller without his glasses on but that slight negative is countered by just how well Martin can appreciate the length of his eyelashes when he takes them off. He watches them flicker shut and leans in to kiss the crease between Jon's dark eyebrows.

Since moving into the cottage, their nightly routine has consisted of getting into bed and stealing closed-mouth kisses until one of them (Jon) gets impatient and deepens the kiss until they're making out like teenagers. Then, when one of them (Jon) gets bored or (Martin) flustered, they flick off the light and Martin will worldlessly fit himself around Jon like he's keeping vigil over something precious. One of them will whisper _I love you_ and the other will whisper it back. They sleep until they are awoken by the dawn light through the many gaps in the blind. Or the nightmares. Whichever comes first.

The kiss doesn't melt Jon's frown the way Martin hoped it would. He tries again and drops a hand to Jon's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. Jon half-squints up at Martin. His mouth is a tight, unhappy line that Martin has to resist the urge to try and kiss away.

'Jon?'

The Archivist sighs, 'I've been thinking, it feels like this is the part where we should have sex.' Martin's other hand slides down to Jon's shoulder as he tries to process what Jon has said. Distant, overheard voices from a very impactful memory remind him that _Jon doesn't_. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it again. Jon huffs like he's about to snap at Martin so the pink-tinged redhead cuts him off before he can.

'Oh, um, right.' He says intelligently, 'Right?' And, as Jon is opening is mouth again, 'I thought you didn't.' A myriad of emotions spiral across Jon's face, landing on resigned ire.

'Ah, that tidbit of office gossip reached you as well, did it?'

'Sorry, um,' Martin chastises himself mentally for not thinking of literally any of the millions of better ways to bring this up. 'But that's - not - what I'm saying is - do you _want_ to have sex?' Martin takes in Jon's posture, the way he has slowly brought his knees up to his chest, wiry arms wrapped around himself. He wants nothing more than to lay him down and smooth him out until he looks as content as relaxed as he does in the first hour of sleep, before his nightmares get interesting. He doesn't know how to explain that desire.

'I . . .' Jon trails off, lovely voice almost musical. Martin squeezes the sharp angle of his knee. 'Don't know.'

'Well, how do you feel?' Martin runs a hand through his hair awkwardly. He doesn't need to check in with his own body to notice that coiling tension in his groin. He could. If Jon wanted to.

He almost tuts as his boyfriend _shrugs_. Jon is inspecting the twisting knots of scar on his hand instead of meeting Martin's eyes. Martin doesn't want to guess at Jon's emotions, especially with regards to this, but he can see Jon's pulse throbbing in his neck as his skin starts to glow with heat. _So, maybe this is new for him?_ Whatever Jon is thinking, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it now and Martin understands that. There's a lot he wants to tell Jon about himself too.

He lays back against the pancake of a pillow and holds out an inviting arm. Jon takes the hint and nestles into Martin's chest, one of his own arms tucked tight around Martin's waist. Martin wonders if Jon can hear the racing of his heart and what he makes of the sound. He pretends not to notice that Jon has angled his hips so that there's no risk of brushing against him with anything that may or may not have hardened over the course of their kiss.

'I'm not interested in anything that you don't want to do or aren't comfortable with.' He says into the top of Jon's hair before burying his nose and a kiss into the soft, salt and pepper locks. Jon makes a disgruntled, almost disbelieving hum in the back of his throat. It seems like words are completely beyond him at the moment. _And he does love to monologue_. Martin presses another kiss into Jon's head to stop himself from smirking too much. 'Hah. Um, I would like to talk about this sometime, though. You know, if you're happy with that?'

Jon's throat works like he's about to make another unhappy noise but he swallows dryly before rasping, 'Yes. I think that sounds . . . Necessary.' Martin thinks it's slightly unfair just how _good_ his voice sounds when it's a little roughed up. Then it's his turn to feel dry-mouthed and awkward.

'Good, right. Well, I'll get the lamp, shall I?' He flicks the switch and they both spend a long second definitely not thinking about the tentacle-wielding creature that can definitely still kill you even if you're under the covers. Martin hugs Jon closer, as if he can protect him from the creatures of the dark with brute emotion alone.

'I love you.' Jon murmurs, breath hot on the skin of Martin's neck.

'I love you.'

****** 

The long grass brushes against Martin's legs, leaving a damp, navy water line on his jeans as he pushes through the dewy tussock to reach the fence.

'Good morning!' He chirps. The handsome Highland Cow draping its caramel snout over to his side of the fence chews at him. Martin holds out his bare hands, palms up. The cow's nose is wet as it snuffles them and then tilts up its huge head in contempt. 'Yes, I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you today.' He strokes his fingers gently through the cow's tangled fringe with a sigh. 'So, how are you?' The damp from his jeans seems to hit the bare skin of his legs underneath all at one and he shivers. 'Whoa, um, you watch those horns, please!' He steps back shakily as the cow swings its intimidating set of horns to the right to dip down and pick up some more grass to chew. This particular good cow is a regular on his morning walk and she permits more petting once she's got back into a good chewing position. Martin smiles at her, careful not to stare into her deep brown eyes for too long in case he comes off as threatening.

Thoughts of last night have dogged every step of his morning walk. He knows that it was always wrong to assume that every whisper he heard about Jon was factually correct but he had never really dared to dream that he'd be in the situation where actually asking Jon about his sexual preferences was a viable option.

_And_ , he contemplates as he buries his hand in the slightly dew-damp curtain of hair hanging from the cow's head, in the spirit of being truthful with his feelings, at the time he had heard the gossip, he was absolutely gagging for any inside knowledge about Jon. They could have told him that Georgie said that Jon will only sleep in a coffin or only showers on the first day of the month and he would have lapped it all up. He remembers the icy grasp of The Lonely. The mist he had inhaled that filled him with the certainty that his love was but an illusion. That the Jon he thought he knew was based on a few terse conversations and hearsay from someone he had let love him when Martin never really could. That had been rather lonely indeed.

He looks out across the valley. The way the hills rise above the great stretch of the cow's yellowing horns as though she carries the weight of it all. There's mist here too. A fine cloud that coats the treeline like a jacket thrown over a lover's shoulders.

Peter had been wrong, anyway. He does know Jon. He knows the way he mumbles in his sleep and (finally) how he prefers to take his tea at different times of the day and the way his lips look once thoroughly kissed. And, now, the fact that Jon maybe wants to consider having sex with him.

Martin sighs, and the cow almost gouges him in the eyes with her horns as she twists for another mouthful. He takes a step back, wet jeans sticking to his shins. Maybe on the way home he'll figure out how to talk about this with Jon.

'Maybe.' He says to the cow. She chews at him.

******

Tonight, they don't make it to bed before the kissing starts. One second, Martin has a mouth full of poetry and, the next, Jon is crowding him back against the back of the sofa, mouth firm against Martin's as if he can taste the words on his lips. The book he had been reading from slips from Martin's hand and lands on the floor with a thud and a satisfying _snick_ as the covers fall closed to protect the work inside. Martin slides a hand up into Jon's hair, cradling the back of his head as the Archivist pulls gasps from his parted lips. Jon's kisses are a fluid thing, as if he can pour himself into Martin and make a home there, or pull Martin out of his own head drop by drop. 

Their sudden movement has dislodged the blanket that Martin tends to wrap around his bare legs when he gets ready for bed early. Jon's hands float hesitantly an inch above the bare skin of Martin's thighs. _Yes_ , Martin thinks and tugs on Jon's hair a little to try overbalance him. It works. His hands are hot, slightly sweaty, and, unexpectedly, creeping up the soft skin of Martin's porcelain thighs. His thumbs brush the line where the seam of Martin's trousers would lie and the only thing that stops him from melting under the touch is the sudden reminder that _fuck, I meant to bring this up. Shit, fuck. What do I do?_

It's of no surprise to Martin that, while he has been internally panicking, his body has taken what it wants like some greedy autopilot. Jon lets out a throaty hum that may well be a moan and Martin comes back to himself to find that he's biting that plump bottom lip in the same way that got him in trouble the night before. _Oops._ Jon's hands squeeze Martin's thighs tight and he lets out a little noise of his own. He releases Jon's lip only to have the Archivist's tongue pressed into his mouth instead. Jon's hands slip a little higher, until they're almost at the line of his boxers and Martin curses himself for wearing the light grey ones. If Jon were to look, he'd be able to see exactly how wet he was getting Martin from the darker patch of slate-grey between his legs. A tiny part of his brain (probably the one making decisions while the rest of it panics) suggests that he just _waits to see what happens_. Jon's hair slides through his fingers. It's an odd texture, the darker brown strands are like spun silk but the grey hairs have grown back coarser, like silver wiring. The feeling of Jon's hair between his fingers had been one of the first things he really, truly felt after returning from the Lonely. The thought of losing that feeling through reckless pushing towards sex -

Martin pulls away with a wet smack. Jon's hazel eyes are almost swallowed by his pupils. His hands still and he locks his elbows in place like pillars. Like the contact between his hands and Martin's skin is the only thing keeping him upright. _That's a good look_. Martin swallows, mouth dry.

'So, um. What are you doing?'

Jon stares at him. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ Martin glances down at the delightful contrast of Jon’s hands - one a smooth and even brown, the other knotted with ghostly streams of scar tissue like the tributaries of a great river seen from above - against his pale skin and Jon blinks. As Jon bends his head to look, the middle finger of his right hand slips beneath the hem of Martin’s boxers. He swallows.

‘Looks like you might be trying to make a move on me.’ Martin’s voice is low. As though he daren’t speak above a suggestive whisper or the delicate situation they have found themselves in will crumble. He watches Jon’s face carefully, tries not to bite his lip in response to the sight of Jon’s tongue darting out to wet his own. He lays one of his own hands over Jon’s. ‘I don’t want to push anything if it’s going to -‘

Jon makes dismissive _tsk_ sound and shuffles his hips so that he can sit up and fold his arms. The chill air of the cottage feels icy where Jon’s hands had been.

‘How am I meant to know if I like it if we don’t try?’

‘I-‘ Martin starts but his throat goes suddenly dry under the burn of Jon’s gaze. He suddenly becomes aware of every single hair on the back of his neck and they are all standing up. _Come on, Martin. ‘_ I don’t feel comfortable doing things that you don’t seem to want to do.’ The words leave his mouth and it’s like a weight has been lifted from his chest. He watches guiltily as he sees that same weight settle onto Jon. He reaches over to stroke from Jon’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow. ‘It’s really not a problem if you don’t want to do this.’ Jon’s mouth twists unhappily.

‘Well, we’re at an impasse then.’

‘Look,’ Martin shuffles so he’s sitting up as much as he can with Jon’s weight pinning his legs. ‘This isn’t about treating you like you’re some fragile princess who doesn’t know their own mind. It’s - I - um,’ For once, Jon says nothing. His folded arms relax down into his lap. Martin’s cheeks are burning. ‘I’ve had a lot of . . . Changes to my body. Over the past. Trying to make it, I don’t know, _fit._ I guess.’ He takes a shaky breath. The sleeve of Jon’s shirt has a splash of tea on the cuff. So he stares at that. ‘And I need to know that you, um, that you want me in the way that, er, other people in the past . . . Haven't. Yeah.' Jon's long fingers slip into his and squeeze. Martin can't look up at his face but he can _feel_ that Jon is looking at him. 'My,' He coughs, 'Last boyfriend definitely saw sex with me as a - probably unfair to say a chore - a duty, maybe. Once I'd started transitioning.' He dares to glance up at Jon. Puts two hands on his courage and tugs enough to hold his gaze. 'I'm not doing that again.' He can tell that Jon is biting into his tongue, trying not to ask Martin anything he won't be able to stop himself from sharing. Martin appreciates the effort. 'I love you.' He says and stuns a gasp out of Jon. Those words are usually saved for the whispered moments before sleep. 'And I'd rather not have sex at all than ruin things by forcing it.' The expression on Jon's face settles into something like acceptance. He pushes down on Martin's shoulders until the man lies flat and drapes himself over him like a blanket. Martin's freckle-flecked arms wrap tight around him on instinct.

'He sounds like an arsehole.' Jon comments a moment later, voice muffled by Martin's chest.

'Hah.'

Another beat, 'Maybe you have a type?'

******

Martin smiles as he hears the bedroom door click open. Jon had been in there when he'd got back from his walk. Martin could just about hear the whir of the tape recorder underneath the swell of Jon's voice so he left well alone. After about ten minutes, he'd heard the cadence of Jon's speech change through the gap under the door and figured he must be onto his parting thoughts. Thus, when Jon's head appears around the door, Martin is able to nod to the steaming mug of tea on the counter and watch _that face_ split into a grin.

'You read my mind.' Jon jokes as he takes the tea and leans back against the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen. He's always like this after reading a statement: smiling, satiated.

'Hm. I think mind reading is more your gig than mine.'

Jon laughs into his tea. 'Perhaps.'

They share a look, long and familiar and punctuate it with a sip of tea. When they next meet eyes Jon's brow is slightly wrinkled. He glances down at the floor and then back at Martin.

'What if I never know what I want?' Martin takes the final gulp of tea and sets his mug down. The look on Jon's face is so earnest and it bangs on the door of the hard place where Martin has been keeping his love for the other man. Protecting it. 'I know you want . . .' Jon waves a hand in the air, the circling gesture he uses when he's trying to find the right phrase. Back in the day, Martin had spent hours sneaking glances at Jon as he made that gesture, elbow resting on the fading varnish of his desk. 'Enthusiastic consent.'

Martin huffs a laugh, 'How unreasonable.' The creases around Jon's eyes crinkle despite the tension in his shoulders.

'Can I enthusiastically consent to trying?'

Martin suddenly wishes he hadn't finished his tea. It would be lovely to have something to do with his hands right now.

'Ah.' He thinks about it. They could try it. If it's shit, they stop. It seems too simple and Martin's brain swims as he tries to work out just how badly it could go wrong. 'Yes.' He decides. 'We can try.' Jon smiles and bites it off, embarrassed. Martin fancies that his skin has developed a healthy pink undertone. 'Can I ask - how does this work for you? Like, in the past . . .' He trails off. Thinking about Georgie and Jon together is still a single track road to a bad mood no matter how much he keeps telling himself that he'll work on it. Jon coughs and straightens up.

'It's like - I get aroused. Er, sometimes. Sometimes it just happens. But I can't seem to call on it. It's a bit fickle. I don't really understand how people look at other people and think _yes, I would have sex with you_.'

Martin laughs, soft and fond. 'Only you would describe a boner as fickle.' Jon grins despite himself. 'But, um, yeah. That's-'

'What?'

Martin takes in the shape of this man he loves. The way his hair is starting to fall into his eyes, his narrow hips, the way the tendons stick out in the backs of his hands. How Jon's gaze sometimes feels like a caress and sometimes like a brand. It's all poetry waiting for him to write it down.

'I can definitely call on it when I'm looking at you.'

'Oh.' Jon takes a sip of tea to cover his awkwardness. Martin suspects that he's rather pleased if the curl of his mouth around the rim is anything to go by.

'Flattered?'

'Who, me?' He says coyly. Martin grins.

'Well, just - uh - let me know if you ever . . .'

'Yep.'

'And, otherwise, business as usual, I guess?'

Jon nods and heads to the sink to rinse out his mug. Martin keeps a close eye on his body language. There's something else he wants to say.

'And you object to me just helping you-?'

Martin's not going to pretend that thinking about that wasn't one of his favourite procrastination methods at work. 'Yes.' _But -_ 'No. Uh, kind of. At the moment.' Jon sets his mug down on the draining board with a clink. He turns, smiling, and Martin smiles back.

'Okay.'

' _Okay_.'

'Great.'

'Uhuh.'

'Do you want to do a crossword?'

'I thought you'd never ask.'

******

The frequent washings of rain they had experienced in London did nothing to prepare them for the tempestuous battering their isolated cottage was just about standing up against. Heavy, sheet-like rain was falling when they woke up, enough to keep Martin from his morning walk. The wind howled through the open fireplace and extinguished each of Jon's attempts at a fire with a laugh. Jon had been smirking over at Martin all day, commenting repeatedly on how the rain running down the window he was sitting by really complimented his tortured poet aesthetic. Martin ran out of cushions to launch at him in response eventually.

As the dull grey of the sky through the windows gives way to the moonless charcoal of night, the weather finally relents enough for the radio to pick up a scrap of a signal. Jon's grin is that of a very smug cat as that signal turns out to be Radio 4.

'Ugh.' Martin complains. He's sat with both his legs laid out across the sofa and obligingly drops his left foot to the floor so that Jon can sit between them and rest back on Martin's chest and shoulders. Martin ends up with a nose-full of Jon's hair and, as he inhales, he thinks that there might, actually, be _some_ perks to listening to the radio with Jon.

'Daisy likes Radio 4.' Jon says as he grabs Martin's wrists by the cuffs of his shirt and pulls them until they're wrapped snug around his waist.

'Yeah, well, Daisy also likes murder.'

'Best stop complaining about Radio 4 then.' Jon quips back and, unseen, Martin rolls his eyes and smiles.

The problem is that, even with a handful of warm and only slightly bony Archivist, this radio channel is _exceedingly dull_. Martin can only just make out the words through the static and, honestly, what they're talking about it so irrelevant to his and Jon's life right now, it’s almost not worth the effort. He suspects that's why Jon likes it so much. He can close his eyes and pretend that none of this has happened and the Prime Minister's latest address about how his party are _probably_ not going to put their dick in the poor bears some meaning to their lives. Martin sighs and Jon's hands tighten briefly on his wrists. It's almost an instruction: _I'm comfortable, please stay._

So, he should find another way to entertain himself.

Jon's neck seems like a good place to start. Martin nuzzles his nose into it, inhaling deeply. The comforting smell of old books laced with something sharp, like flicking through yellowed pages to find that the words are staring back at you. Jon doesn't wriggle away, even when Martin presses a gentle kiss to the soft skin at the junction between his neck and shoulder. _Permission granted_. He plants several more kisses along the side of his neck, paying particular attention to the small, roundish birthmark that sits just below and slightly behind Jon's ear. Jon sighs contentedly and there's no way that he doesn't feel the answering curve in Martin's lips.

Martin works on instinct, a brush of lips here, the gentle application of teeth there. Jon melts in his arms. If the roles were reversed, Martin is sure he'd have a collection of pretty bruises like purple clouds from collarbone to ear. The thought makes a shudder run down his spine. He's not sure how hard he'd have to suck to pull a bruise up against Jon's brown skin but he picks a spot at random and doubles his efforts, a hand sliding from Jon's waist to cup his face and hold him still. He stops suddenly as Jon makes a soft, quiet keen.

'Ah, sorry! Too much?' It's only now that Martin notices the rough edge of Jon's breathing. He can see the pulse jumping in his neck.

'Uh.'

Martin waits a second to see if Jon is going to say anything more. He watches the rise and fall of his chest. 'Jon?'

'Um. Martin.' Jon twists around in his arms until they're lying chest to chest. His pupils are blown. Martin sucks in a breath as Jon shifts his hips.

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'Right.' 

Jon wets his lips. 'What do I do?' Martin drops his hands to Jon's hips and smiles slowly.

'Kiss me.' He whispers. Jon acquiesces with a grin of his own. Martin wastes no time deepening kiss. Despite Jon's previous assertions, he's never been a slow learner and Jon lets out a deep, throaty hum as he bites his lower lip. 'What do you want?' Jon shrugs, flushed, and runs a long-fingered hand through his own hair.

'I trust you.' He mumbles eventually.

'Well, that's excellent to know.' Martin beams. 'Um, there's lube in the bathroom, if you want to grab it.'

'In the bathroom? Why?' Jon's confused frown is back. Martin meets his eyes steadily and, they've not really tried this before, but he _projects_ the answer. Just offers it up to the Beholding until it's impossible that Jon would miss it. It helpfully informs Jon where the lube is, as well as exactly what Martin needed it for. Martin thinks he hears Jon curse as he scrambles off him and practically runs out of the door.

Martin has a few seconds to breathe. His entire body feels taut with anticipation. _We're doing this. Fuck, we're actually doing this_.

Jon enters the room much more slowly, taking hesitant steps until he reaches the side of the sofa. They share a nervous smile.

'Where do you want me?' Jon's voice is sandpaper rough and it does nothing to cool the rapidly pooling heat in Martin's body. He spreads his legs again and gestures for Jon to lie down how he was before. As Jon's body settles back, Martin tilts his head to bite at that same spot on his neck. It's hard to see in the half-light from the lamp, but the skin there does seem a shade darker than the rest.

'Where do you want _me_?' Martin repeats the question, lips right by Jon's ear. The Archivist shivers a little and turns it into another shrug.

'Usually I just - uh - you know. Until it goes away.'

'Well, I'm glad you trust me to manage that.' Martin says dryly and Jon's eyes flicker shut in embarrassment. Martin twists his neck to kiss Jon's burning cheek. He looks down the length of Jon's body and huffs a laugh as he sees the way he's holding the lube in both hands. Like Eucharist. 'Can I have that?' Jon drops the bottle in his haste to give it away. 'Shuffle your bottoms down, please.' Jon wriggles in his lap as Martin clicks the cap open and squeezes a generous amount of the clear fluid into his palm. Jon settles back, folds his arms across his chest and then decides otherwise and lays them down on Martin's thighs either side of him, fingers brushing against the seams of Martin's jeans. 'Let me know if you want me to stop, okay?'

'I'd like you to start, actually.' Jon replies, as sarcastic and prissy as Martin always knew he would be. Martin chuckles as he moves his hand down blindly until he meets the hot press of Jon's cock. Jon hisses as he wraps his hand around it. 'Bloody cold!'

'Yeah, well, you were being impatient!'

Whatever Jon planned to retort is lost under the huff of breath he lets out in surprise and - hopefully - pleasure as Martin starts stroking him. He starts with slow, purposeful strokes from the root of it right up to the head and feels Jon relax back into his chest. He returns to sucking little bruises into Jon's neck, delighting in the gasps and cut off curses the man makes. Jon's fingers grip the flesh of Martin's thighs through his jeans and Martin hopes he'll remove them later to find matching sets of small, circular bruises on both legs. _Fuck, he's hot_.

'Martin.' Jon chokes on his name.

'That okay?' Martin half-growls into his neck, slowly going mad with the feeling of Jon's aborted hip movements on top of him. Jon nods furiously.

'Can you-?'

'Faster?' Martin speeds up the rate of his strokes and smiles as Jon's fingers dig deeper into his thighs.

'Oh - fuck. Yes.'

The heat between Martin's legs is almost too much to bear.

'Can you . . . so I can-?'

Somehow, Jon catches Martin's meaning and rolls onto his side, back bracketed by the line of the couch. He runs his hands up Martin's chest, to his jawline, tugging his face up to meet to hungry press of his lips.

'Mmf.' Martin protests as he tries to get his button undone and fly down one handed, the other still moving on Jon. Being touched like this has changed something in Jon. When Martin sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites on it, Jon doesn't hesitate to bite right back. _He's feisty_ , Martin thinks with a smirk. Which will just make it all the more sweet when he falls apart.

'Hah. _Martin_.' Jon groans between kisses and Martin answers him with a sound of his own as he finally gets his hand inside his parts and feels just how wet he is. _Fuck_. The glow of the lamp turns Jon's greying temples golden and Martin wishes he had another hand to sink into his impressive head of hair. A half-formed stanza floats through his mind about himself as Midas and Jon slowly turning gold under his touch.

'Okay?' He asks the next time Jon releases his mouth for a breath.

'Yes. Really. You?'

'Mmm. Yes.' He punctuates with a kiss. 'Definitely.' The smile on Jon's face fills him with such joy and _relief_ that Martin can only moan at the sight of it. 'You're gorgeous.' He promises, sealing the words into Jon's skin with a press of his lips.

Martin gasps into Jon's mouth as he rubs himself in a particularly good rhythm. Jon twists his head to watch the writhe of Martin's hand beneath the open waistband of his jeans and the heat of Jon's eyes makes Martin's skin feel ablaze. He uses Jon's distraction to get a good look at his boyfriend's slick cock as it disappears and reappears through the tight circle of his pale hand. He strokes his thumb over the flushed pink head of it, just to admire the view, and Jon hisses.

'No?'

' _Yes._ Do that again.'

'Ah.' Though seemingly impossible, the blush on Martin's cheeks deepens. He tries to start his sentence again. 'Bossy, are we?'

'Well,' Jon sucks in a breath, 'I did used to be your boss.' Martin strokes his thumb through the collection of precome on the tip of Jon's penis, 'Oh!'

'Hah. Don't remind me of that right now.' Martin hardly needs to open his mental library of Jon at his desk when he has the real thing in front of him. Plus, it seems a bit against etiquette to come first. Jon's laugh is a hot sweep of breath across Martin's cheek and he darts up to kiss it out of him.

'Bad?' Jon asks.

'Nope.'

'Martin! Real- Ah! Fuck.' Jon loses his scandalised gasp as Martin twists his wrist in combination with the swipe of his thumb that Jon seems to like so much. He meets Jon's eyes and can't help but grin at the way his pupils have almost devoured the hazel irises. They seem to glitter with mischief and -

Well, Martin hopes Jon can see the same emotion looking back at him.

Jon's thick eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut, face contorting and mouth falling open. Martin doesn't need to read his mind to know what that means.

'Oh, God. Martin -'

' _Yes.'_

'I think I'm gonna -' Jon comes with a shout, burying his face in Martin's shoulder and biting down hard. His shoulders heave. His fingers fist into Martin's shirt. Martin feels himself skirt dangerously close to the edge in response and pulls his hand away from his dick in favour of wrapping it around Jon's shoulders, holding him tight as he shakes through the last wave of orgasm. ' _Shit._ '

Jon falls bonelessly still, breath hot against Martin’s neck. Martin looks at the mess on his hand and his halfway to making up his mind about the best place to wipe when Jon fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a tissue.

‘It’s almost as if you knew.’ Martin accepts it and kisses Jon’s temple in thanks.

‘Fail to prepare and all that.’ The Archivist grunts as he pushes himself upwards. His hair sticks out at all sorts of odd angles despite not having been touched. The sight pulls on Martin’s chest, a welcome distraction from the demanding throb of his dick. Jon rakes a hand through his hair and blinks, bleary-eyed, as Martin cleans himself and Jon off. He smiles a lazy, blissful smile in Martin’s direction when their eyes meet again. ‘Thanks.’

‘Was that okay?’

‘Yeah, of course. I mean - obviously.’ Jon looks down at Martin’s open jeans shyly. ‘Are you going to-?’

‘Yeah.’ Martin’s voice is rough. He swallows. ‘If that’s okay?’

Jon nods. ‘Can I?’ Martin studies his face carefully, sees him almost roll his eyes then decide not to push his luck. ‘I want to. If you want me to. Just . . . If you could tell me what to do?’

_Me, tell Jonathan Sims how to get me off?_

‘Yep. Yeah. That’s- hah. Let me get my jeans off.’

They reshuffle until Martin is bare below the waist, dick swollen and just visible among his coppery pubic hair. Jon sits up and lays Martin’s legs on top of his own. Martin is hardly surprised that he’s picked the spot with the best view. And, _God_ , what a view that must be. There's a tingling sensation on Martin's skin, never still, in all the spots Jon's gaze touches. It feels like a gentle breeze over a burn, over-sensitive in its attempt at being soothing. He struggles not to buck up into the feeling of Jon's eyes on his dick. Martin has never been much of an exhibitionist, but he feels like one now as he drags his left hand down towards the ache between his thighs and feels that sensation skitter down his arm. It makes the hairs stand up wherever it travels.

It takes him no time to get properly warmed up again. He rubs at himself delicately and tries to balance the twin desires of making this last as long as possible and not taking the piss in case Jon gets bored. He smiles as Jon takes his free hand and fits their palms together, fingers interlocked.

As the rolling heat reaches close to a boiling point, Martin dips his fingers lower, playing with his slick entrance. He sees Jon exhale unsteadily and it gives him an idea.

'Still want to help?' His voice is almost too quiet underneath the constant patter of rain against the windows. Jon nods enthusiastically anyway.

'How?' He flexes his hand as though warming up and Martin tries not to giggle.

'Um, could you touch me? Inside?'

Martin has to spread his legs out even further to give Jon the space he needs. With one leg across Jon's lap and one stretched out to balance on the coffee table that is actually just a kitchen stool, he feels incredibly wanton. Like he's just offering himself up and Jon can take what he wants. Except, Jon wants to be told what to do. The incongruity is incredibly appealing to Martin.

'Okay.' He breathes.

'Lube?' Jon asks, eyes roaming around for any sign of the little bottle he had rescued from the bathroom. Martin blushes.

'Probably don't need it, to be honest.' He admits and Jon's mouth falls into a little 'o' of understanding. Jon's hand smooths up through the fine hair of his thigh and Martin jumps as a blunt fingertip bumps into his entrance, body lighting up at the prospect of getting fucked by Jon. 'Ngh, oh!' Jon pulls back, skittish, at Martin's cry. 'What? No, that was good.' He squeezes Jon's hand.

'Oh! Sorry!'

The pressure returns, steady and on the right side of firm as it breaches him. Martin licks his own fingers and groans as he strokes the wetness along the length of his dick. Jon slips his finger in until their hands bump together and Martin can feel him deep inside.

'Shit, Jon!' Martin needs him to move. Jon's slow, minute adjustments inside him are going to do him in. 'Just - ah - curl it inwards a bit? Oh!' Martin's knees bend and go weak without his conscious control. The movement rocks Martin's hips down onto Jon and it sends waves of pleasure spilling out through the rest of his body.

'Yes?'

'Oh, yeah. Yeah.' Martin squeezes his eyes shut. He feels Jon's gaze flick to his face and it only heightens the tingling burn of it when it returns to their moving hands.

'It feels like you could take another one.' Jon comments thoughtfully. Martin doesn't know if he can physically open his eyes, but he can picture the face Jon is making, like he's staring down a problem with intense, dry focus. The kind that makes perfect kindling for Martin's desire.

'Ugh. Jon, I could take your whole fucking hand.' He moans. It's like he hears his own voice from afar and his mouth drops open as he realises what he just said. 'Oh, shit. Sorry. Ah-'

'Don't be. That's . . . an interesting thought.' And, _Jesus_ , of course he has to be so clinical at a time like this. Jon's almost-detachment to the entire situation only makes the greedy suction of his eyes as he drinks in the view even hotter. 'Do you want another one?'

'Yes.' He blinks up at Jon to find that the bastard is smirking. 'Don't look so smug.' The smirk opens into a grin and Jon leans down awkwardly to kiss the part of Martin's cheek he can reach. 'You wanted me to tell you what to do, right?' Martin asks. He wets his lips at Jon's nod. 'Put them inside me.' A particularly good stroke at the same time as Jon's smooth slide into him has Martin gasping and grinding down on Jon's hand. 'Fuck. Move them - ah! - like before. Please. _Ah!_ Deeper, Jon.' His eyes roll back as Jon demonstrates how diligently he can take instruction when he wants to. Jon squeezes Martin's hand, thumb brushing up and down the side of it. The usually sweet gesture is made surprisingly sensual by their current situation. Their other hands brush together repeatedly as they move and Martin can feel himself start to properly clench down on Jon's fingers. He's getting close. 'Jon - hah - like that. Do it, uh, slow and deep.' He lets out a sound that starts as a low hum and finishes as a drawn out hiss as Jon pushes into that sweet spot inside of him. Precise. Measured. Really fucking hot. He's not going to last much longer and he informs Jon so, almost a warning.

'God, Martin. You look lovely like this.' They lock eyes. _Oh, fuck,_ Martin's last coherent thought reads: _huh, he really doesn't look like he's lying._

He comes with a cut-off cry, squeezing the fragile bones of Jon's hand together as his hips jerk wildly, each thrust pushing Jon's fingers deeper into himself. He feels his face twist up. Feels Jon lap it all up with his eyes. Feels the wave of pleasure all the way to his teeth.

His hand stills on himself and Jon pulls his fingers out instinctively.

'You can just wipe them on my-' He slurs, absolutely unable to move or _think_. Jon's hand slips from his and he hears the rustle of a tissue. He fails at not smiling.

Jon shifts, cat-like, until he's happily positioned along the length of Martin's side. He tugs at Martin's arms until they wrap around him again and then a little more until they wrap around him exactly the way he wants them too. Martin huffs a laugh and presses a kiss to the nearest silver-gold temple. They settle into the couch, listening to the wind whistle through the chimney and the static of the long-forgotten radio show.

'Was that-?' Jon asks after a second.

'Oh, yeah. Good.' Martin kisses him again. It feels right. 'And for you?'

'Hm. Yes.'

Jon's face is slightly blurry and squished up against Martin's shoulder. His smile is a slow curve of a thing, almost, but not quite, a smirk. They meet eyes.

'Better than Radio 4, at least?'

Jon's surprised laugh is almost better than the orgasm _. Martin, you're absolutely done for_. Jon kisses his amusement into Martin's neck. 'No comment.'

Martin takes that as a yes.

**Author's Note:**

> firstly: thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed the story!! I've written another one called _priorities_ which is also in this series and is pretty much a sequel to this (even though it was written first, oops). it would be lovely if you wanted to check it out! 
> 
> secondly: what a crazy world we live in at the moment. I hope everyone is keeping safe and looking after their mental and physical health as much as they can!! I've been completely uprooted from placement and so, until they tell me I can go back to volunteer at the hospital, I'm going to try and write as much as possible (ironically, about another angery academic who isn't allowed to leave the house) and post every friday to try and contribute to the fanworks that are really helping me escape from all this crazy shit at the moment!!! look after yourselves, everyone! 
> 
> thirdly: don't tell me that martin doesn't talk to the cows. he talks to every animal he sees.


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